Nathanael Turner

I was standing in this driveway not that long ago. I come back here when I can, once or twice a year. Not too much changes. There’s a giant pine tree above my head, a red barn with a caved in roof behind me, and a slew of cars that almost work. I haven’t seen this particular car in quite a few years, neither have I seen my brother. I really can’t remember our last time together.

We used to take the ’68 Mustang for test runs down Baker road; the wheels smearing their molten rubber and leaving a cloud of intoxicating smoke that would block the view of the car tearing down the road. My brother once stood in this driveway with the ’68, just before heading out to pick up his prom date. I probably only took this picture because Mom asked me to.

This photograph changed the way I pick up my camera, not immediately, but six years later. Like Barthes looking at a photo of his “living” mother, I feel the ensuing destruction that this image forebodes. It makes my hands heavy when I raise my camera to my face.